


>Continue

by PuppiesRainbowsSadism



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppiesRainbowsSadism/pseuds/PuppiesRainbowsSadism
Summary: “Who was that?”1. "His name was Tamlen."2. "Someone I once knew."3. "I don’t want to talk about it."---Or:  I was really upset that the Warden just kind of . . . left Tamlen there, so I wrote a funeral/grieving scene.
Relationships: Alistair & Mahariel (Dragon Age), Female Mahariel/Tamlen (referenced), Leliana & Mahariel (Dragon Age), Mahariel & Tamlen (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai & Mahariel
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	>Continue

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot to say about this, but I'll try to keep it brief. First and foremost, if you know me irl or online, please pretend I never posted this.
> 
> 1\. This fic features a female, Dalish Elf Warden. No class is specified.
> 
> 2\. There are references to a potential romance with Tamlen that never happened. No other romances are mentioned, but it's implied that the Warden is at least friendly with Alistair, Leliana, Zevran, and Sten.
> 
> 3\. I'm brand new to Dragon Age and the fandom, so most of my info on Dalish customs is from the wiki. Also, idk what the fandom-accepted method of referring to player characters is, so I only refer to her as "The Warden."
> 
> 4\. This is in part inspired by the quest "The Elven Ritual," by which I mean, I've incorporated in-game-style dialogue and action options (in present tense, 2nd person) among normal prose (past tense, 3rd person). Options chosen are in bold. This was highly experimental for me, so please let me know how it worked out.
> 
> 5\. Finally, warnings: Canon minor character death, grief, (hella) guilt, and a bit of self-loathing.

The Warden’s hands trembled, but she did not drop her weapon. Blood pooled on top of the dirt beneath the body of her friend, not quite soaking in just yet. Death was a mercy to him, but she couldn’t make herself move from that spot, couldn’t stop staring at him.

Her mind was completely blank of everything but her conversation with Tamlen during the gauntlet. Whatever it had been -- a spirit, an illusion -- she felt it could read her like a book. _You didn’t answer the Guardian. Do you even know the answer?_ What a ridiculous question. Guilt had been eating her alive since the moment she awoke tainted, and it only worsened now. But she had to be strong, for everyone’s sake. There were only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, and it wouldn’t do to have one of them -- the woman -- the _elf_ \-- break down in front of her companions. Not to mention that she firmly believed it was none of their business.l

She almost missed the quick footsteps approaching. She did not turn around to greet Alastair.

“Who was that?”

  1. **His name was Tamlen.**
  2. Someone I once knew.
  3. I don’t want to talk about it.



The Warden summoned all the strength she had left to keep her voice steady, but could not afford the same to her hands as she put away her weapon.

“Tamlen? Then . . . he was the one with you when you . . . “

She hated the caution and care in Alistair’s voice.

“I’m so sorry. This is what happens when the taint is left unchecked. It’s . . . it’s better for him, To have it end. It was a mercy.”

  1. I know.
  2. **I need a moment. Alone. Please.**
  3. I don’t need your sympathy.



Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, and her second attempt was more successful.

Alistair nodded. “Of course. I’ll be by the fire, if you need me.”

He left, and she was so, so tempted to let the tears welling up in her eyes fall. But she knew that ugly sobs would likely come with them, and she didn’t have time to entertain such a thing.

  1. _(Leave him)_
  2. **_(Bury him)_**



_(You lift Tamlen into your arms. He seems lighter than he should be, even with his gear, but whether that is because he has lost weight or you have gotten stronger, you are unsure.)_

The Tamlen at her feet was not the Tamlen she knew, but it hurt all the same. She would make sure he got a proper funeral. Or, as close as she could manage.

He lasted so long with the taint, and still retained some of his mind. The shame gnawed at her, vicious as a starving hound, but there was work to be done.

She didn’t go too far -- still in sight but out of earshot, as long as she was quiet -- and laid Tamlen down in the tall grass. She didn’t have many supplies with her, and returning to camp was the last thing she wanted to do. What she had on hand would have to be enough.

  1. _(Undress him)_
  2. **_(Wash him)_**
  3. _(Bury him)_



She could not bear to undress him, as was customary. The damage the taint had done to him was already visible, and she did not need to see more.

_(You empty your water skin over Tamlen and scrub gently at his exposed skin. It is many shades darker than when you last saw him, but the grime falling away at your hands reveals a colour slightly more familiar.)_

  1. _(Leave him)_
  2. _(Bury him)_
  3. **_(Dress him)_**



She was not the one responsible for death rites in her clan, so she was unfamiliar with the exact dressings used. It was doubtful she’d find them here anyway. She had plenty of elfroot, though, and unfamiliar flowers were plentiful in the plains where they had made camp.

_(You gather what you can from the surrounding field while being careful not to wander closer to camp. You also find a fallen branch from a small oak tree.)_

While gathering the plants that smelled nice and crushing them and the elfroot with her hands as well as she could, she did her best to think back to the few rites she attended. When was the prayer done, during the dressing or the farewell? She didn’t remember praying while saying her last goodbyes, but maybe she had been doing it wrong this whole time. Was the rite they held for Tamlen so long ago good enough, or was it up to her to do it properly?

  1. _(Bury him)_
  2. **_(Pray)_**



_(You pray to Falon’Din, cautiously. It is much too late for such an invocation, but you do what you can.)_

  1. **_(Bury him)_**
  2. _(Leave him)_



_(You do not have the proper tools to dig a grave, but manage to disturb the earth with an old sword you’d been meaning to sell and shovel it out with your hands. The work is exhausting, dirty, and takes much longer than it should.)_

  1. **_(Continue)_**



_(You deem the hole deep enough and gently lay Tamlen into it, placing the oak branch across him.)_

  1. **_(Continue)_**



_(As you shovel the dirt over Tamlen, you sing an ancient Dalish song, so softly that you are the only one who hears it.)_

The song she remembered all too well. It wasn’t a dirge, like the humans had, and she would be the first to say that she didn’t have much of a voice for singing, but her throat threatened to close over the notes.

  1. **_(Continue)_**



It was only after Tamlen was buried that she realized she didn’t have a sapling to plant. Although . . . 

In her pocket was an acorn. She’d plucked it off the ground on their way out of Lothering, thinking at the time, with some dark amusement, that if she died trying to stop the Blight, there was little chance she’d have a proper Dalish death rite. At the very least, she’d have this seed buried with her that would inconvenience some human groundskeeper in a few years.

It was no sapling, but it would have to do.

_(You bury the acorn on top of your friend’s grave.)_

She glanced over back towards the fire. No one was anywhere near her, although she thought she saw a couple of her companions glance over her way.

The acorn planted, the Warden finally let herself double over and cry. Mourning was not something the Dalish did, per se. Not in the way humans and city elves did. Death was a natural part of life, even though it wasn’t always, but she had changed in more ways than one. And she wasn’t just mourning Tamlen; she was mourning everything she had lost and everything she had become. The guilt, of course, was a constant presence.

How selfish of her to take hours of valuable time to hold a funeral for her friend when everyone else here had lost just as much, if not more, and none of them got that luxury. Duncan, Branka, and who knows who else should have gotten such. No one else had mourned like this -- did Alistair even have the time?

If only she hadn’t left so soon, if she had stayed to look longer around the forest. What a fool she was to think that Tamlen was still in the ruins. Maybe he could have been helped, like she had been. Maybe Tamlen could have also been a Grey Warden alongside her, or died during the joining or the battle at Ostagar. That would have been more merciful than suffering with the taint for months. He fought it valiantly enough that she had time to fail him once again.

And she left her clan for this, to survive the taint and the battle and everything else thrown her way. What gave her the right? She would do anything her keeper asked, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but . . . she would never see them again. She was no longer a part of her clan, and for what? The _privilege_ of survival? She was almost angry at Duncan for suggesting she become a Grey Warden in the first place. She was certainly angry the first time she heard of it, but that anger had slowly simmered into the dull ache of an unwanted duty -- commanded by her Keeper, there was nothing she wouldn’t do. That didn’t mean she had to like it.

She could have stayed, fled north with the others. She could have pushed Tamlen away from the mirror or insisted they never enter the ruins in the first place. Tamlen could have lived. They could have . . . they could have . . . 

There was something there, before all of this. Something that could have been . . . she was hesitant to say it, but what harm could it do now? It could have been love, eventually. Ashalle wanted to see them together, and neither of them opposed, but . . . 

The Warden clamped her hands over her mouth. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t risk the others hearing. How shameful would that be? She was supposed to be the strong one, facing death every day without flinching, slaughtering enemies by the dozens with ease, the one to help gather the armies and unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. And here she was, desperately trying to muffle her sobs while her best friend lay dead in the ground from her doing. Pathetic.

“Um. Hey.”

  1. **I thought I asked to be alone.**
  2. Who’s there?
  3. What do you want?



She took her time calming herself down, too weary to even be angry at being interrupted. When she spoke, there was no venom in her voice. In fact, it sounded as teary as she no doubt looked.

“Do correct me if I’m wrong,” Alistair answered softly, stepping closer, “But I think that’s the last thing you need right now.”

  1. You’re right.
  2. **You shouldn’t have to see me like this.**
  3. You’re wrong. Leave me alone.



“What, mourning? You know, you’ve been so stoic this whole time, I’m surprised you haven’t broken yet. No offense.”

  1. Offense taken.
  2. **_(Say nothing)_**



“It’s just that -- look, we’re all under a lot of stress, obviously. But you’ve taken so much onto yourself. You’re the one leading this whole effort. It’s only human -- ah, er, _elf_ \-- to need to let it out sometimes. You can’t be strong all the time.”

Alistair sat beside her, rather close, and pulled her into a one-armed side hug. The position was awkward, but the sentiment was genuine, and it squeezed a small sob out of her.

“No one here thinks you’re perfect. You don’t have to try to be. I’m here, if you ever need a shoulder to cry on. And I’m sure -- well, I don’t want to volunteer anyone, but most of us here are willing to support you.”

  1. **May I be blunt, for just a moment?**
  2. Thank you.
  3. I sure hope so.
  4. _(Say nothing)_



“Of course.”

  1. ~~I never really knew my parents.~~
  2. ~~I left my clan to survive the taint.~~
  3. ~~And now I’ve failed Tamlen twice over, in a way I can never atone for.~~
  4. **We’re going to stop this Blight, but I don’t know what I have to live for after that.**



“Please don’t say that.” Alistair did in fact sound like he was pleading. “You can live for anything. For your friends, who will be devastated if you weren’t here. For another fight that will undoubtedly crop up. For your dog, because who will feed him if you’re not around?”

  1. I know.
  2. **I wish I could say I don’t have regrets.**
  3. My Keeper ordered me here, and for what?



“A life without regret is a life without risk, and what kind of life is that?”

Alistair was silent for a moment.The Warden took the time to steady her breathing and wipe her face clean -- or, rather, free of tears, if the dirt that rubbed off her hands was anything to go by.

“Would it be alright if some of us paid our respects to Tamlen?”

She looked up at him, startled.

Alistair looked sheepish. “Is that . . . I haven’t offended you, have I? We all have different customs, you know, so . . . “

  1. If Tamlen could get over the fact that you’re a shem, I fear you two would have gotten along too well.
  2. **You may pay your respects if you wish.**
  3. Absolutely not. You didn’t know him.



**Alistair approves (+2)**

“I’ll get the others.”

They both stood, and while Alistair went to get those who wanted to participate, the Warden shook herself and wiped her hands off on her armor as well as she could.

Not a moment too soon, Leliana was wrapping her in her arms.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. I brought flowers. I hope that’s okay. Your people don’t worship the Maker, do you?”

  1. **No, we don’t.**
  2. Some do, I’m sure.



“Would it be alright if I prayed to the Maker here? I assure you, I don’t want to try and convert anyone here.”

  1. I would prefer if you didn’t.
  2. He doesn’t need your Maker’s blessing.
  3. **You may, but to yourself, please.**



**Leliana approves (+1)**

Leliana nodded and placed the bundle of flowers over the grave, bowing her head serenely.

Alistair, Sten, and Zevran were not far behind. The Warden was shocked to see so many of her companions here to respect a man none of them ever even met.

“Tell me, Warden,” Zevran demanded, not unkindly, “How is this done? My mother may have been Dalish, but I was raised in the city.”

  1. You would normally say goodbye one last time, but . . .
  2. Why are you even here?
  3. **The Dalish rite has been done. Do as you please, so long as you’re respectful.**



Zevran nodded and stood to the side of the grave. He seemed out of place and awkward, but he kept his head low and appeared genuinely upset.

Alistair placed his own flowers -- identical to Leliana’s, no doubt picked in the field -- on top of the grave, took a moment of silence, and stood beside his fellow Warden.

Sten stood back silently, stoic as ever, but just the fact that he was here was a comfort in its own strange way.

None of them stayed long, and the Warden herself lagged behind only a moment, grabbing Alistar gently by the arm as he tried to leave.

“Yes?”

  1. Stay, for just a moment.
  2. **I want you to promise me something.**
  3. I need to ask you something.



“I’m listening.”

  1. **When I die . . .  
**
  2. If I die before you . . .



“Please don’t talk like that. We’ll be fine, I promise you.”

  1. **When it happens, notify my clan. I want a proper Dalish funeral.**
  2. Never mind, then.
  3. Don’t kid yourself. There’s no way we both get out of this alive.



How awful and selfish to ask such a thing. Tamlen got two, and neither were truly proper, yet here she was -- 

Alistair sighed -- not in annoyance, perhaps sadness. “Of course. I’ll make sure they’re present.”

The Warden nodded and let him go. He hesitated, but let her be.

When she deemed him far enough away, she pulled out her journal and a piece of charcoal and marked a small point on the map where they made camp. On a blank page in the back, she drew a crude map of the immediate area, including approximately how far from the nearest town they were and in what direction, and drew an X over Tamlen’s grave with the note _Oak tree -- Tamlen_ and signed _lethallan_.

She snapped the journal closed and, with one last, lingering look at her friend’s grave, turned to rejoin the camp.

Neither Bodahn nor Sandal approached her, but Bodahn did call out as she passed. “Terribly sorry about your friend. Truly a terrible way to be. You did him a great service, but I do give you my most sincere condolences.”

Mask: On. She offered a small smile and a nod and did not stop to talk. She would not linger here, nor would she see another friend die.


End file.
